


Destruction is by Design

by ArtsyAfrodite



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Addict!Ian, Alternate Universe, Angst, Bipolar Disorder, Bipolar Ian, Challenge: A.U.gust, Cocaine, Don't expect a fluffy ending, Drug Abuse, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Drug dealer!Mickey, Drugs, Gallavich, I apologize for all the drug tags but it is what it is, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 16:10:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2235225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArtsyAfrodite/pseuds/ArtsyAfrodite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey's a local drug dealer who only cares about his next sale.  However, one night, with doubling his sales on his mind (and perhaps something much deeper), he ventures to Boystown.  He ends up at Fairytale where he meets a red headed dancer named Ian.  He's instantly captivated and learns that Ian has a hunger he knows he can feed - so he thinks.  </p><p>What starts as a one night stand turns into something much darker that Mickey feels he can't escape, even if he wanted to.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the song "Junky Valentine" by Rocco Deluca and the Burden. Listen to the song, and you'll understand the method to my madness here. The title is a line from the song. I also wrote to "Simple Pleasures" by Jake Bugg. I won't say much more up here except - WARNING: Heavy angst and drug use in is this fic. And did I say angst? So yeah...

There’s a need deep in the cracks of the Southside.  It’s a profound and bottomless hunger that lingers in the alleyways and into the crooked crevices of the sidewalks drawing mapped lines into the cement.  Most people walk over them, ignoring the way they travel down, deep and big enough to cause one to trip, or they walk by the shadows that lean against the walls near dumpsters and under fire escapes.  It’s a known yet unseen piece of the city that many choose the throw veils over while going on with their daily lives, not even realizing that the cracks and shadows have found their way into their own homes.  It’s ignored. 

Mickey on the other hand – he fills these cracks and acknowledges the shadows.  It is after all, his job to fill the spaces where hunger lies with substances meant to do so, even if momentarily.  And that’s the catch.  No matter how many fills he provides, they always have to come back for more.  Some call him a pusher man, others a low life drug dealer, but Mickey – he simply sees himself as a provider – one who feeds.

So as he makes his way through the grime he knows all too well, slapping his closed fist which blooms open flower-like into wanting, opened palms, he feels he’s planting his seeds exactly where they need to go.  Tonight, however, he won’t be hitting his usual spots too long, another place he’s chosen to venture to holding potential and promises he knows will get him extra of what he needs in more ways than one.  It’s risky, but he starts there anyway, giving nods to his usuals as he passes them by, playing Santa Claus and giving gifts of temporary white Christmases to those who are celebratory and eager.

“Ayo Mickey Milkovich!”

Mickey turns around, ready to stick the voice that booms behind him.  Everyone who knows him recognizes that calling him with such a force is never smart – and if you ever chose to do so, be prepared to break out every defense you think you have.  He releases his grip around his Glock when he realizes it’s just one of his customers, Dominguez, who has his own line of clients he always buys for through Mickey.

“Didn’t I teach you not to fucking call me like that from behind?” Mickey bites, “or do I need to school you again?”

Throwing up both of his hands in surrender, Dominguez offers a, “My bad Milkovich,” before reaching in his suit pants pocket, probably Armani or some fancy shit, to pull out a thick wad of one hundred dollar bills.  Freddy Dominguez is a big time Financial Executive, a product of the Southside, who still comes to get fixes for his colleagues from Mickey, as well as for himself.  The money gives Mickey the ease he needs, cash always something that calms his nerves, the smell of the green as intoxicating as the very thing he’s going for tonight.  “Got a few colleagues and clients I need to buy for, and throw one in there for me too.”

Out in the open, Mickey’s usually more discreet with his sales, but he’s in an area where everyone knows him and the name attached to him, the educated citizens of the Southside not wanting to find out what happens if they were to ever fuck with or rat out a Milkovich.  “You come to me with more finesse and less zest next time Dominguez,” Mickey says as he makes the exchange.  “I don’t want to have to regulate around here.”

“Fine man, note taken.”

Dominguez gives Mickey a fist pound before turning around and disappearing into his Maserati, leaving tire marks as he zips off.  Mickey always warns him he needs to leave that fucking car in the Northside when he comes here, but he’s an addict, and addicts have the remarkable ability to ignore dangers and such to satiate a thirst that essentially never goes away.

Having hit most of his usual customers, Mickey continues his journey to an area known, yet unknown to him.  The money has been pretty decent around here, but he knows he can double, even triple his sales if he goes to this place he never thought he’d step foot in.  It carries a deadly stigma for him, but a potential for money he refuses to pass up – as well as a promise to fill his own hunger. 

He walks aimlessly, carrying a pocket full of gifts and a dangerous appetite, to the infamous _Boystown_.

////

It doesn’t take long for Mickey to start making sales when he enters Boystown.  Men and boys of varying ages and class start to approach him, speaking code words Mickey instantly picks up on before he even steps foot into a club or bar.  He must look the part, because his mere presence on the streets draws in those desperate to feed like bees to honey.

He makes his way into a bar/lounge of some sort, heads turning as soon as he walks in and plants himself on a barstool.  He orders a beer from the bartender, scowling at men passing by obviously giving him the eye, silently making advances.  Most of them are old, geriatric viagroids with cascading bellies that spill sloppily over their too tight belts.  They’re nowhere near appetizing and could never provide Mickey with what he’s looking for.  He turns around to face away from the crowd behind him, chugging his beer as he waits for the next customer to bite the bait.

“Never seen you ‘round here before,” a voice says behind him.  Mickey turns to see a tall, thin blonde guy with his hands shoved in his pockets.  At first he shoots the guy a frown, feeling like maybe he’s hitting on him, and really Mickey should know better because he is in Boystown.  But the offense subsides when the guy rubs underneath his nostrils with his thumb and index finger, pinching them together quickly – a typical tick and dead giveaway he’s an addict.

“Either you’re buyin’ or keepin’ it movin’, Mickey huffs out, knowing the guy will take the bait. 

The blonde looks around quickly before closing the distance between the two of them, holding out a closed fist.  “How much will fifty get me?”

Mickey snorts as he looks at the guy’s fist.  Was he fucking serious?  Fifty bucks barely got you a decent blow job nowadays.  “I don’t sell no watered down shit – my stuff is as pure as you’ll find ‘round here.  So that’ll get you a fuck off,” Mickey says as he turns his back towards the guy.  He’s selling coke, not crack.  How dare this asshole insult him like that.

“C’mon man,” the guy starts to beg, “I’ll make up for whatever it costs in other ways.”  The tail end of his sentence is suggestive and sets something off inside of Mickey.  He whips around and jumps to his feet, immediately grabbing the guy by his collar.  He stares him dead in his doughy brown eyes, and almost feels sorry for him.  He loosens the grip around the guy’s collar, once again reminding himself where he is.  “How much man?” the guy continues, clearly not fazed by almost getting his ass kicked.

“I usually charge $75 for a gram,” Mickey says as he widens the gap between them, “but I’ll make an exception if you tell me where the gold mine around here is.  I know you know.”

A flash of happiness washes across the guy’s face as he smirks.  Of course he knows.  “Product first,” the guy bargains.  Mickey’s not nearly as annoyed as he is amused.  He’s cutting his price way down, and this fucker is actually trying to act like he has an advantage.  Nevertheless, he lets it slide off of his shoulders taking out a gram of coke, making a quick exchange with the guy.  “Fairytale,” the blonde offers as he examines the product quickly, seeming pleased with what he’s just bought.  “You’ll make a killing there.  Not to mention some of the dancers who work there are an added bonus,” the guy smiles at Mickey, “I mean – if you’re looking for _that_ too.”

Mickey doesn’t need the guy to elaborate on what it is he means by _that_.  He knows exactly what he’s implying, and despite not wanting to be overt with this particular need – the added bonus is accurate.  “As long as the money’s right,” Mickey responds, earning another smirk from the guy.  He frowns again, before walking by the guy, intentionally bumping his shoulder with his so hard, it nearly knocks him over.  He storms outside and begins to walk the streets of Boystown, not really knowing where Fairytale is, but he’ll find out.

////

Luckily for Mickey, he makes a couple of sales along the way, and asks where he can find the club.  A few point him to where he needs to go, and a few blocks later, he finds himself standing outside of Fairytale.  The crowd here is a lot younger, more his age demographic, and far more rowdy that the bar he just left.  There are guys making out against the walls, addicts openly sharing sniffs of white powder or popping little white pills.  He can hear the music blaring from the inside and already smells the stench of alcohol seeping underneath the entrance when he walks up to it.

There are more guys making out and people exchanging forbidden proclivities as he walks through the entrance area towards the darting lights and loud music.  Mickey almost feels himself want to retreat and run from the overwhelming feeling he gets upon entering the main area.  Along with the colored strobe lights painting the crowd with illuminated lines, there are men on raised platforms, some high above the bar and others on the floor, dancing in shining gold shorts.  Money rains down all around the ones at ground level as they gyrate their hips, allowing hands to stick bills into their shorts.  From what Mickey can see, they’re decorated in body glitter and wearing eyeliner.  It isn’t his thing, and it initially makes his face curl.

He makes his way over to the bar, earning stabbing stares from different guys as he walks by.  He figures he’ll take his usual approach and perch himself atop a stool, knowing someone will come through and figure him out eventually.  He’s right, and it doesn’t take long for someone to slide into a barstool next to him, looking straight ahead, tapping their fingers in obvious craving on the bar.  Mickey can see them turn their head towards him in his periphery, obviously sizing him up. 

“Can I help you?” Mickey says without looking at the guy.  There’s silence for a few seconds, before the stranger clears his throat.

“You selling anything, special?” the guy asks.

Liking the sound of this, Mickey finally faces the guy, his brown hair falling in his face and shoots him a grin.  “Depends on your poison,” he offers.  Mickey knows by now that most club hoppers prefer sleigh rides over Molly.  He already has his hand on a bag before the guy even answers.

“You got coke?” he asks. 

“$75 a gram,” Mickey responds.

“Give me two,” the guy says quickly, and just like that, Mickey makes his fist bloom into his palm and earns $150 after being in the place all of ten minutes.  The brown-haired man offers no thanks as he quickly pockets the drugs and walks off.  Mickey sees him grab the arm of another guy, pulling him to disappear with him into the cracks of Fairytale, becoming momentary shadows hidden from the strobe lights of the club.

Satisfied with his first sale, Mickey decides to turn and scout the crowd of men.  Everyone is drunk, or high, dancing all over each other, or drooling over the dancers on the platforms.  He finds nothing of interest after a few moments of looking and decides to just turn back around and sip on the beer he just ordered.

But that doesn’t happen.

Before he can turn around completely, a flash of red catches Mickey’s eye.  He doesn’t really know what’s happening, but he’s instantly mesmerized.  He swivels the stool completely around so he’s facing the dancer that just captured his attention in the middle of the floor.  He’s a ginger, probably a year or two younger than Mickey, so he would be about eighteen, maybe nineteen.  And despite being decorated in body glitter and wearing thick black eyeliner, the very thing Mickey said wasn’t his thing – he’s fucking gorgeous.

He’s obviously a favorite, judging by the massive amounts of men gathered around his platform, throwing even more massive amounts of money at him, swinging their arms hungrily in the air, just wanting to get one look from the red head.  He plays the crowd well too, winking at the ones who throw the most cash, ever so often getting close enough to where it looks like he may touch them.  But he never does and it drives the wolves crazy.  He simply does this insane body roll that makes the men wobble at the knees before backing away playfully, working another one the exact same way. 

Mickey feels a growl deep inside him, and he recognizes it, just as an addict must recognize their own – it’s his hunger and he suddenly feels the urge to feed it. 

He continues to watch the boy dance, his crooked smile giving the bright lights a run for their money, his body perfectly sculpted in all the right places.  And judging by the bulge in his itty bitty gold shorts – the kid isn’t doing too bad down there either.  Mickey wants him.  He falls deeper into his head, developing tunnel vision around the dancer, nearly missing his next sale.

“Yo!” the voice beside him calls, obviously a second, maybe third time.  Mickey was too far gone to know.

He turns to his right side, seeing guy with hair just as black as his ogling him.  “What?” Mickey bites, clearly pissed off he was interrupted watching the dancer.  He doesn’t give two fucks that the guy frowns, pinching up his face.  He doesn’t care that this is a potential loss of a sale.  All he wants to do is go back to watching the red head in the middle of the floor doing his thing. 

“Excuse me for interrupting,” the guy says sarcastically as he looks towards the dancer Mickey’s just been eyeing.  It’s apparent this guy is known for having this effect on people.  The guy turns to look back at Mickey.  “I hear you come bearing gifts,” he says with a wicked smile.

“Yeah,” Mickey responds, “gifts with a price tag.  $75 a gram.”

“Expensive,” the guy huffs, but he reaches into his pocket anyway and pulls out some twenties.  “You got change for $80?”  Mickey nods and reaches into his stash, making the exchange.  “Expect more to come through,” the customer says as he grabs his purchase, “word spreads quickly in here.”  Mickey nods and goes back to watching Ian without offering another word to the guy who winks at him before walking away.

Mickey’s too captivated to get offended, and returns to having tunnel vision for a mysterious red head, dancing the night away.

////

Mickey remains in Fairytale for the next two hours, making sales and making eyes at the dancer.  Since he started watching the red head, he’s come down off of the platform for water from the bar twice, returning right back to his post.  Mickey feels like a creeper, watching from the shadows, disappearing right along with those who voluntarily get their fixes and go into the cracks of their own addiction.  He knows he’s virtually invisible to the guy right now, but he can’t help but want to earn one glance from him.

He gets more than that the third time he leaves his platform, seemingly for the rest of the night this time.

The red head walks up to the same black haired guy Mickey sold to earlier, giving him a quick embrace.  The guy whispers something into the dancer’s ear, which causes him to look Mickey’s way and smirk.  Mickey feels his heart rate pick up speed, because did the guy he’s just been lusting over for the past two hours just give him a look?  He shakes the notion out of his head, clearly believing he’s hallucinated that as the kid leaves the floor and disappears into the back of the club.

About thirty minutes later, Mickey decides it’s time to leave Fairytale.  The dancer never re-emerged and he’s made enough money to allow himself to skip selling for the next week.  He’s running low on product anyway, having maybe three grams left.  Feeling good, he figures he’ll just give them to Iggy to get a good ride off of later, for half price.  He leaves a serious tip for the bartender who’s been serving him beer after beer on the bar, whose eyes bulge out of his head when he stares down at the fifty dollar bill Mickey just left him.  He’s got a good buzz going, certainly worth a fifty dollar tip.

He makes his way outside and begins to walk swiftly down the street away from the club.  His pockets are heavy, but inside of him feels desperate and empty.  Mickey deals with the feeling – at least he got half of what he wanted.  He crosses the street, the club getting further away behind him, but before he can turn the corner, a voice calls out to him from behind. 

“Hey you!” the voice calls.  “Wait up!”

Mickey turns around to see none other than the ginger dancer jogging across the street.  He’s in regular clothing, a fitted green t-shirt and a ripped pair of jeans that hug him in all the right places.  When he gets up close to Mickey, the streetlights highlight the red head’s eyes, which are the same color as his shirt.  The eyeliner appears to be wiped off a bit, but it’s still noticeable.  Mickey could care less, because this boy is too beautiful to be true.  He stops and places his hands awkwardly in his pockets, before shooting a crooked smile at him.

“Can I help you?” Mickey asks, surprised he hasn’t sputtered out gibberish, because he was tripping all over himself inside. 

“I’m Ian,” the red head offers.

“Ok, Ian…” Mickey trails off before looking him up and down.  There’s an awkward shifting of weight from one leg to the other on this guy.  He looks him back in his green eyes.  “Like I said, can I help you?”  Mickey knows he sounds annoyed, when really, he couldn’t be further from that.  He wants to talk to the red head, and finds himself hoping he’s trying to pick him up.

“Can I have your name first?”

“Mickey,” he says as he rolls his eyes.  Only his regular addict customers know his name, but there’s something about this guy that makes him throw caution to the wind.  He usually doesn’t tell potential one night stands his name. 

Ian scratches awkwardly behind his head as he smiles strangely at Mickey.  He then brings his hand to his face, rubbing his index finger and thumb underneath his nostrils, doing that quick pinching thing and Mickey feels his stomach hit the pavement.  He’s looking to buy.  “You still selling tonight?” he asks lowly, his eyes cast towards the ground as if embarrassed.

Mickey is fucking disappointed.  He didn’t have the dancer pegged as a user – he looked far too graceful, too healthy to be one, that faint darkness that covered every other addict’s skin like a thin veil absent from his faintly freckled skin.  Also, he was really hoping he was about to be picked up by him, and it appears he isn’t.  “$75 a gram,” Mickey offers blandly, already fishing around in the little stash he has left.  He isn’t looking up at him.

“I’ll take one,” Ian says as he fishes in his own pockets.  Mickey looks up just as he pulls a wad of crumbled bills out, the usual one dollar bills dancers got nowhere to be seen as all he could see were tens, twenties, and he even thinks he caught a glimpse of a fifty.  Ian extends his hand containing three twenties, a ten and a five.  Mickey grabs the cash first before pulling out the bag.

He extends his usual closed fist placing it in the palm of Ian’s hand, but instead of opening it right away, he feels the red head grip his closed fist keeping him from opening it.  Mickey looks incredulously up at him, noticing a licentious grin spreading across his face, his green eyes hooded and filled with something Mickey recognizes all too well.  He feels his skin tighten, and his heart rate pick back up to that same speed caused when Ian fist smirked at him inside the club.

“The fuck are you doing?” Mickey asks, sounding upset, but enjoying the way Ian’s long fingers curl into the top of his hand way too much.

“Ever test your own product?” Ian asks unabashedly.  Mickey scowls, feeling insulted, because no – he doesn’t sample his own shit.  He’s used recreationally from time to time by way of other dealers, but a dealer using his own product is the number one rule breaker.

“You fucking serious?  No, I don’t,” Mickey answers harshly.  His tone, however, only makes Ian more persistent, the look in his eyes far from wavering.  He tightens the grip around his fist even more, making Mickey feel like this guy may be a little crazy and he may have to beat his ass.  Yet, he refrains from doing so, too caught in the grip of green eyes and a strong hand.

“Want to?” the red head asks.  He’s on to something, Mickey knows it.  He thinks about telling him to go fuck himself, and not selling to him at all, but the way Ian just licked his lips goes straight to his dick and he immediately gets the hint.  So instead of telling him to go fuck himself, Mickey acquiesces and decides to get fucked instead.

“Fuck it,” Mickey answers, and Ian gets the message. He loosens his grip on Mickey’s closed fist just like that, the lust in his green eyes seeming to put a spell on the dealer.  Mickey immediately unravels his fist, blooming a flower into Ian’s hot palm, planting his seed exactly where it needs to go.

He leaves with the dancer, not even asking where they’re going, his cares lifting into the Southside night sky, disappearing behind the moonlight.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How is it you can give me things I both want and need?” Ian asks as he lays naked in the same spot of the bed as before, staring blankly at the ceiling. His pupils are blown, his blood coursing through his veins at rapid speeds.

Mickey’s entire body has never twitched with as much anticipation as it is now as he follows the dancer to parts unknown.

They end up at a local motel in the area.  The clerk at the front desk immediately nods at Ian when they arrive, sliding him a room key.  This alarms Mickey, because it seems the dancer is a regular here.  He ignores the twisting that’s just formed in his gut and follows Ian anyway.  His own hunger is far too great for him to turn back now.

Ian attacks him before he can even close the room door fully.  Mickey’s not opposed to the sudden contact, gripping a fist full of red hair as the red head aggressively grabs his ass with both of his big hands, his tongue invading and exploring Mickey’s mouth.  He lets out a groan as he rubs their growing erections together through their jeans as he pushes the dealer against a wall, his tongue just seeming to know exactly how to caress Mickey’s. 

This is weird and somewhat worrisome to Mickey for a few reasons: a.) He never hooks up with a customer, b.) He’s never agreed to use his own product, and c.) The way his body seems to melt perfectly into Ian’s makes it feel like they’ve been together multiple times.  The dancer is touching him in all the right places, knowing exactly where to let his fingers roam as he moves his lips down his neck to suck marks into his collar bone.  And this is another one of Mickey’s rule breakers – no visible marks.  Yet, he can’t seem to bring himself to give a fuck.

Ian suddenly changes it up and pulls Mickey off of the wall, turning and pushing him down onto the motel bed.  The squeaky mattress screams, and Mickey’s certain they’re about to make enough noise to disturb whoever’s sharing a wall with them.  Instinctively, he parts his thighs to allow Ian to fall between them, almost too perfectly, his erection pushing through his jeans and disturbing his own.  He skillfully unzips Mickey’s jeans, pushing his hand into his boxers and begins to stroke his dick, spreading the precum already gathered around the tip.  Mickey nearly bites his bottom lip off to suppress the moan building in his chest.

A few firm strokes are given to him by Ian, who then removes his hand and pushes himself up so he’s now on his knees between Mickey’s parted thighs.  He removes his green t-shirt, exposing his perfectly chiseled abs he drooled over for two hours in Fairytale.  Mickey is in awe, because seeing this up close elicits a reaction in him ten times stronger than the one he had at the club.  Ian catches the admiration in Mickey’s eyes and smiles.

“You like what you see?” he asks coyly.

Mickey snorts, but manages to huff out a quick, “Yeah,” before Ian pulls him up by his shirt, bending forward to run his tongue along his full, bottom lip.  He subsequently removes Mickey’s shirt, wasting no time to re-attack his mouth once it’s out of the way.

Ian lifts up to stare down in Mickey’s eyes, multiple types of hunger lingering behind his emerald eyes, and it nearly frightens Mickey how mesmerizing they are.  “You ready?” Ian asks as he rakes his fingernails over Mickey’s nipples causing him the shudder.  Initially, Mickey thinks he’s asking him if he’s ready to be fucked boneless into the mattress, but quickly gets the drift when Ian reaches into his pocket and pulls out the small bag of coke.  He makes his eyebrows dance before telling Mickey to, “Lay down.”

Mickey does so without hesitation, pressing his back flush into the cheap motel mattress.  He looks up at Ian, beautiful and potentially destructive, stirring an excitement in Mickey’s gut he’s never felt before.  It’s scary and arousing at the same time.  “How often do you do this?” he lets slip from his lips, earning a somewhat taken aback look from Ian.  It fades as he shoots that wicked grin again.

“Enough,” is all Ian offers as he speedily removes Mickey’s jeans and boxers in one swift motion.  His hard dick breaks free, bouncing and hitting his lower abdomen a few times, eliciting a chuckle from Ian.  The red head maneuvers his own jeans and boxers off until he’s fully naked, which elicits a gasp from Mickey.  The dealer looks down at Ian’s throbbing, and incredibly immense member which he takes into his hand and begins stroking it slowly as he licks his lips.  Mickey knows if he uses it right, he won’t be able to walk straight for a week – and that’s exactly what he wants. 

Not wasting another minute, Ian lowers himself on top of Mickey, their erections rubbing together, skin against skin, which this time, pulls a guttural moan out of Mickey’s throat.  He brings the bag of coke in front of their faces, deciding to free form it, sprinkling some along his index finger.  He motions for Mickey to lift his head slightly, placing his finger underneath his nostrils, the dealer taking the first hit without hesitation.  Mickey rests his head back into the pillow, instantly feeling drawn to the shadows, a rapid, heated feeling traveling down his spine.  No wonder his regulars nearly knock him over to get their next fix.

Ian smirks when he sees Mickey close his eyes.  The red head moves slowly down his body, placing gentle kisses on his pale skin, before ending up at his lower abdomen.  He strokes Mickey’s cock firmly with one hand as he sprinkles a line of coke starting at his belly button, leading down towards the top of his pubic area.  He sniffs the white line up in seemingly one sniff, causing Mickey to shiver underneath.  He throws his head back and lets out a satisfied grunt, before dipping his head back down, taking all of Mickey into his mouth.

He sucks avidly for a few moments, before removing his mouth in one loud popping motion.  Mickey’s pupils dilate as he watches Ian stick two fingers in his mouth, wetting them generously, before dipping back down to take his dick back into his mouth.  He nearly hollers when he feels the red head insert the spit slicked fingers into his hole, who instantly begins inserting them in and out, scissoring away while he simultaneously sucks him up and down, up and down.  Ian crooks his fingers, intentionally brushing against those sensitive bundle of nerves, and this time, Mickey yells out.  Ian chuckles and hums around his dick before lifting off, and hovers above Mickey until they’re face to face again.

Maybe it’s the coke, or maybe it’s the dancer himself, but without hesitating, Mickey grabs the back of Ian’s neck, crashing their lips together.  Ian stops briefly, reaching into his pants pocket on the floor, pulling out a condom, wasting no time to open it and slide it on.  He then responds by lining himself up and pushing in, barely giving Mickey a chance to adjust before he starts to move in and out of him.  The dealer practically whines, feeling full, his hunger finally being fed as Ian starts to fuck him mercilessly into the mattress.

By the time the coke takes full effect, Mickey is seeing stars.  Ian has his body twisted in positions he didn’t think were humanly possible, his sweat slicked skin glistening in the shitty motel lighting as they continue to get slap happy on the squeaking mattress.  At this point, he’s fucking screaming, adding to the shriek of the bed, not caring who hears him.  Ian’s a little less vocal, letting out a grunt here and there, moaning loudly ever so often when he feels Mickey clench around him.  He’s fucking him from behind at this point, but quickly changes it up again, flipping Mickey onto his back.  He doesn’t skip a beat re-aligning himself before jamming back into him.

He changes his angle, stabbing Mickey’s prostate repeatedly, bringing him to the edge after only a short series of thrusts.  The dealer comes between them with a loud cry, causing the red head to reach his climax almost immediately after.  Ian collapses on top of Mickey, allowing himself to come back into himself after the out of body experience he just had.  He nuzzles, fucking nuzzles Mickey thinks to himself, into the crook of his neck as he breathes heavily, his cock softening inside of him.  Feeling trapped all of a sudden, Mickey gently begins to push the dancer off of him, who gets the hint.

Ian falls flat on his back on the other side of the Mickey, who’s too fucked up to comment at the moment.  There’s a stupid, sex-happy grin on the red head’s face, and Mickey has to look away before he’s sucked in again.  So they lay in silence for a few moments, the rise and fall of their chests as erratic breaths escape their mouths the only sounds filling the room.  Ian then sits up, looking around the room, before standing from the bed.  He finds what he’s looking for, grabbing the small bag still containing some coke in it, before making a quick line on the nightstand.  He sniffs loudly, taking the rest of the white powder into his nose.

Mickey doesn’t know why, but he feels himself wince at the sound. 

“So,” Ian says as he falls back into the bed next to Mickey, obviously wanting to start an awkward post-coital conversation.  Mickey isn’t a fan of these.  “You Southside?”

“Obviously,” Mickey huffs as he sits up, collecting his clothes off of the floor. 

“Me too,” Ian offers as he turns on his side, admiring the view of Mickey’s naked ass as he slides his boxers on.

“Congratulations,” Mickey says as he puts on his jeans, turning just in time to catch the frown on Ian’s face.  He knows he’s being short, but he needs to get the fuck out of there, the feeling of being sucked in suddenly coming over him.  To what exactly, he wasn’t so sure, but the feeling’s there.  He hastily puts on his shirt and pulls out the ridiculous wad of cash he made tonight.

“You gonna go back to the Southside with that much money on you?” Ian asks.

“Yeah,” Mickey offers bluntly, gathering the rest of his things.  “People know not to fuck with me, trust me.”

“You really should get a bank account.”

“What makes you think I don’t have one?” Mickey bites.  And he doesn’t.

Ian simply shrugs, not answering, and stares at the ceiling as if thinking about something.  He’s also high as shit, and Mickey leaves him to his thoughts as he puts on his boots.  “You can stay here for the night,” Ian finally blurts out.  He turns towards Mickey, looking at him expectantly.

“No thanks,” Mickey shoots the offer down, “I gotta run.”  In all realness, Mickey doesn’t want to go anywhere.  For some reason he feels drawn to the dancer, but he knows this was just a one night stand and leaves it at that.  He’s also a customer, and Mickey can’t get involved with customers – it’s bound to end in destruction.

“Ok,” is all Ian says as he stares back at the ceiling.  He’s still naked, seeming to not care about clothes as he finishes his sleigh ride.  He then turns back to Mickey.  “Got another gram?  I have money.”

Mickey feels himself frown at that, which is another weird reaction, because he’s never one to curl his face to money.  “Haven’t you had enough?”

“I’m a big boy,” Ian says with a little more snap in his words.  Clearly Mickey’s struck a nerve, and the red flag has been waved in his face.

Mickey reaches into his pocket, pulling out a gram, tossing it onto the bed next to the naked dancer.  Ian in return crawls over the bed to pick his jeans up off the floor.  He pulls out four twenties, balls them in his fist and extends his hand to Mickey.  The dealer places an opened palm in front of Ian’s face, who places his balled fist into his hand, but doesn’t release the cash right away.  His dilated pupils stare through Mickey for far too long to be comfortable, before he smirks and fist-blooms his own flower into Mickey’s palm.

“Keep the change,” Ian says as he rolls back onto his back and stares back up at the ceiling.

Mickey nods, and leaves the room without another word, leaving Ian to disappear into the cracks of the motel room, his shadow obscured into the walls around him.

////

It was a one night stand between him and Ian, it was.  Mickey left it at that.  But for reasons unknown to him, he finds himself back at Fariytale the next night.  He’s recognized immediately by people he sold to before, making a killing off of the appetites of those who take their addictions deep into the cracks of the club and the places around it, purposely turning into the shadows only Mickey acknowledges.

He tells himself he’s merely a provider – one with the ability to nourish.

He takes his usual post at the bar, blooming flowers into needy palms desperate for cultivation.  They purchase rides on the white horse from Mickey, who gladly gives it to them.  After a few sales, he turns to observe Ian on his usual post in the middle of the dance floor, the same pack of wolves huddled around him, mouths howling, hands prying, money throwing.  He shoots his same smirk to the ones he can bleed the most cash out of, doing his body rolls while he rubs his hands teasingly all over himself.  And instead of remaining unseen, this time – Ian immediately notices Mickey.

He locks eyes with the dealer, not looking away once during the rest of his routine.  Mickey feels he needs to look away, but can’t.  He also notices something behind Ian’s eyes – something he didn’t notice the first night he caught his attention.  Then it dawns on Mickey – it’s his own hunger, one he knows he can feed.  Ian winks at him, and his fingers curl intuitively around the small bags of white substance in his pants pocket as he waits for his one night stand to meet him afterwards, turning it into a second night.

They meet outside the club just as before, this time the awkwardness no longer lingering.  Ian does the same tick with his index finger and thumb, pinching underneath his nose, which makes Mickey wince – it makes him want to call off the night.  But there’s something about the dancer that tends to his own craving and he couldn’t turn away if he tried.  There’s an extra urgency in the way Ian shifts his weight from leg to leg, his hands fidgeting aimlessly in his pants pocket, but Mickey ignores the signs and follows him once again.

Ian takes him to the same motel – the same room – where they lay in the same bed.  Clothes spin and white lines are sniffed off of bare skin, pale in the motel light and needing to be gripped in all the right places.  Sore spots still linger in Mickey’s thighs where Ian must have gripped too hard the night before, bruises in the shape of hand prints are on his hips where the red head places his hands directly over them.  The outlines disappear underneath his large hands as he places them strategically in the same places.  Mickey feels small explosions happening beneath his skin from the way Ian touches him.  It’s only the second night and he already knows his body so well.

Just as before, Mickey tries to stifle his cries, but fails miserably.  “That’s it,” Ian breaths into his neck after his first cry, “that’s exactly what I wanna hear.”  The way his voice sounds against his skin causes Mickey to easily come undone.  He knows he’s falling slowly into a beautiful destruction with Ian, but he finds himself not caring as grips his thighs around the dancer a little tighter, coming a lot harder than before.

“How is it you can give me things I both want and need?” Ian asks as he lays naked in the same spot of the bed as before, staring blankly at the ceiling.  His pupils are blown, his blood coursing through his veins at rapid speeds.

Mickey wonders where to place the _want_ and the _need_ , if it’s him Ian wants and the coke he needs or vice versa.  Either way, it’s a scary thought and Mickey pushes it to the back of his mind as he fishes in his pants pocket for what he knows Ian is going to ask for.  “Do me a favor and stop asking yourself that,” he says as he tosses a small white bag on the bed next to Ian, who hands him the money in return, the feel of his closed fist opening in his palm making him feel as if Ian is perhaps planting something inside him.

He shudders at the thought – yet he knows he’ll be back at Fairytale again.

////

Routine turns into habit as Mickey ventures back to Fairytale night after night, selling indecencies to wanting customers – providing, feeding.  More than a month passes and his face is known now, not just for being the premier dealer, but also for being with Ian.  The money’s good, but the price is poisonous.  Dangerous.  He recognizes where the cracks in the area root themselves, where the need seeps deep into the crevices, and he knows where the unseen shadows hide, their appetites loud in his ears now.  But just as these individuals walk with the shadows of their addictions, Mickey realizes he himself has developed one of his own.

It’s feeding Ian’s addiction – it’s Ian himself.

The dancer gets him high in ways that surpass the effects of cocaine, the slip of his sweat slicked skin against his and the way he knows exactly when and where to dig his fingers into him, too intoxicating to turn down.  In return, he gives Ian his fix, and over time, Mickey realizes that he is Ian’s dealer and lover, and Ian is his junky valentine.  The thought makes him sick, yet the addiction has taken over and he can’t seem to break himself away if he tried. 

He continues to sit atop his usual post at Fairytale as he watches Ian dance his heart away, each night the sparkle in his green eyes less luminescent, the faint pink on his pale skin slowly becoming sallow.  There’s a twitch in his fingers that get worse every day, but Mickey can’t bring himself to acknowledge it, too caught up in the way those twitching fingers always manage to touch him right where he needs it.  Mickey even has his own key to the motel room now, sometimes going there before Ian gets there, having lines of coke made wherever the red head requests before he arrives – along the bathtub, on the bedspread, nightstand – on the inside of his thigh. 

It doesn’t matter – it depends on his mood.

And there are several of them Mickey notices over time.  Mostly, Ian’s happy, really happy, his energy something he can barely keep up with.  Then there are times, although short-lived, where he’s annoyed easily, or becomes a brooding mess.  The sex is sloppy and lazy when Ian’s like this, yet still manages to be mind-blowing enough to keep Mickey returning.  Mickey’s come to the conclusion that Ian himself is just mind-blowing.

Tonight is no different as Mickey makes his way to the motel ahead of Ian, receiving a text telling him exactly what the dancer wants.

_[ **Ian 1:20am:** put a line of coke on ur hard dick]_

Mickey actually shudders after reading that, but makes his way inside, already undressing as thoughts of what Ian will do to him tonight instantly gets him hard as a rock.  He however hesitates as he takes the bag out of his pocket, studying how white the coke is – so pure, yet so tainted.  He feels a chill run down his spine as he lays on the bed, fully naked and suddenly – afraid.  He’s been ignoring Ian’s downward spiral, the obvious signs that have been waved in front of his face numerous times, the red flags a fiery bright.  So he opts out of putting anything on his dick, and instead just lays there, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling as he waits for Ian to arrive.

About thirty minutes later, Ian comes bursting through the doors.  He smiles when he sees a very naked Mickey sprawled out on the bed.  His smile dissolves into a frown as he notices no coke in site.  Mickey props himself up on his elbows as he looks at Ian.  He isn’t even hard anymore and the look on his face is far from the ravenous one Ian loves to see every night.  The dancer’s fingers begin to twitch as his chin juts out and his eyes blink frantically.

“Where’s the stuff?  And why haven’t you put it where I asked you to?”  Ian’s voice is demanding and somewhat agitated.  Mickey thinks for a second, ready to protest.  But before he can open his mouth, Ian rushes over to him and attacks his mouth with his.  He still has the small bag of coke held tightly in his balled up fist, and he doesn’t even notice when Ian gently maneuvers it out while he pushes him into the mattress, licking stripes down his neck.  The red head props himself up so he’s hovering over his dealer, a satisfied smile on his face.  “Spread your legs, relax,” Ian says as he looks down at Mickey and a glint of something dangerous washes over his face as he stares.

Mickey’s hesitant, but he obeys and lets Ian do the very thing he didn’t.  It’s not hard, being that he got him instantly erect again, and as loud sniffing sounds fill the room, their shadows in the walls begin to mock him.  But as usual, he gets lost – lost in the way Ian hits the right spots here and there, fucking _everywhere_.  The room spins, and Mickey isn’t even high, at least not off of drugs.

He instead looks up, and stares his addiction right in the eyes. 

Ian’s so far gone, he couldn’t bring him back if he tried – he’s lost too deep in his habit.  And it kind of hurts that it isn’t him the red head’s lost in.  Mickey would be lying if he said he didn’t feel slighted by that.  But he pushes the thought to the back of his mind as Ian hovers above him, making quick work of the both of them.  The dancer buries his face into Mickey’s neck as he continues to move in and out of him, his breathing heavy.

“Mickey,” Ian exhales as he slows his pace, “I love you.” 

Mickey’s body freezes right as Ian says these words, and he comes instantly, followed by the red head’s own climax.  He remains frozen as Ian lays on top of him, not being able to say the words back, because he’s not sure if it’s even possible to love someone after five weeks.  Mickey’s not even sure if Ian actually feels this way – it’s a mystery if he loves him or the drugs he provides.  Not seeming bothered by the fact he hasn’t said it back, Ian places his sweat-stained face above Mickey’s and presses their lips together.  Mickey can clearly see before the space is closed that his pupils are dark and wide, hiding the green until it’s barely seen.  It’s merely a thin emerald ring that remains.

And as their tongues wrestle lazily, it’s right then Mickey feels this gnawing sensation in his gut.  Ian needs help.  “I can’t do this anymore,” Mickey says suddenly as he breaks them apart, pushing Ian off of him.  A hurt look crosses the red head’s face as he looks incredulously down at Mickey.

“What are you talking about?” he asks.  “What can’t you do anymore?  Us?”

“I can’t sell to you anymore,” Mickey clarifies as he sits up and swings his legs over the side of the bed, turning his back to Ian.  “It’s fucking you up too much.”

“I was fucked up before I met you Mick,” Ian says as stands from the bed.  “I don’t get where this is coming from,” he huffs as he begins to pace back and forth.  “We’ve been fine all this time.”

“No, _you’ve_ been fine.”

“I tell you I love you and this is how you say it back?” Ian says, his voice rising. 

Mickey finally turns towards the dancer, and for the first time he’s unattractive to him.  His skin looks white-washed, his hair less red and his eyes fully dark.  “Is it me you love,” Mickey says sternly, “or the coke?”

Ian’s stung and the pain is apparent by the way his dark eyes widen.  “Fuck you,” is all he offers as he begins to pick up his clothes hastily off of the floor.

“Think about it,” Mickey continues, angry now, “we never go beyond this motel room, and you always need your fix before we can do anything.  How can you call that love?  You’re getting worse every day. You need help.”

“I fucking need you!” Ian screams as he gets less than an inch away from Mickey’s face.  He begins to shake his head as he locks his blackened eyes onto Mickey’s blue ones.  A wicked smile spreads across his face, and suddenly his shadow disappears completely into him.  He is the shadow now, same as the ones Mickey’s seen too often in the cracks of the Southside, and it scares the shit out of him.  You know what?” Ian finally says, “I don’t need you actually.  I can get _this_ elsewhere.”

“And by this, you mean coke,” Mickey responds rhetorically.

“Maybe,” Ian offers as he begins to put his clothes back on.  “But really, I mean a good fuck _and_ the coke.”

This time Mickey’s stung, and he feels his body turn to jelly.  He can barely stand, his knees wobbly and his hands shaking.  He’s so angry.  “Fuck you,” is all Mickey can say at this moment he’s so spent.

“You just did,” Ian bites as he gathers his things.

“The fuck are you going?” Mickey asks.

“Like you care.”

“This is your room.  I’ll go.”

“Don’t bother,” Ian says as he throws a bunch of bills in the dealer’s face.  “And there’s your fucking money.” 

The red head angrily storms out of the room, and just like that he’s gone.  Mickey curses loudly at the walls, as he grabs the remaining bags of coke from out of his pocket.  He storms into the bathroom, and empties every last baggy into the toilet, flushing away the very thing that caused this in the first place as he fights back the stinging behind his eyes.

He throws himself on the motel bed and wonders to himself if he’s angrier at the idea that Ian may actually love the coke and not him – or at the possibility it’s him that may actually love Ian.

Mickey resigns silently to the fact it’s more than likely the latter.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It felt wrong saying that he really didn’t know Ian to Lip, but as Mickey walks heavily down the Southside pavement, he realizes something – he really didn’t know Ian. Not like he wanted to.

Months pass and Mickey’s no longer selling coke. 

He of course hears his fair share of complaints from regulars who got their fix from him, their mouths hanging open hungrily as obscenities are screamed at him.  His fist no longer blooms flowers into palms, and his seeds are instead being thrown where no growth can possibly take place.  They instead get lost in the cracks of the pavement where the addictions he used to feed rest deeply.  He’s now blind to the shadows everyone disregards, no longer acknowledging the ones that linger in the alleyways.  Eventually the sound of their hunger grows silent on his ears.  Mickey decided that night at the motel after Ian left that he didn’t have the stomach to do this anymore.  He instead went back to his usual scams and schemes, barely being able to get by.

But he’s content with that – for now.

He hasn’t step foot back into Fairytale since that night, let alone Boystown.  But for some reason, there’s a pulling today he can’t shake, so going against his better judgment, he ventures to where it all started.  It’s been almost three months, and he knows it’s not a smart move doing this, yet he throws caution to the wind and goes anyway.

The smell is the same as Mickey walks up to the entrance of Fiarytale, the crowd no different as guys make out against the walls and new addicts openly share their penchants, tasting the very thing he used to sell proudly.  He walks through the entrance area, turning away a few people he used to sell to as he makes his way to the main area. 

He sits at the bar, and what used to be _his spot_ as regulars once called it, looking around at the dancers in their shining gold shorts.  He looks, and looks – and looks.  But there’s no sign of Ian.  He instantly feels worried, but figures maybe he’s taking a break or isn’t working tonight.  Taking momentary comfort in those theories, Mickey signals the bartender and orders a shot of vodka. 

A couple more shots later, he’s feeling buzzed and still sees no sign of Ian.  He decides to get as much information as possible, signaling for the bartender again.  The guy holds up one finger, thinking Mickey’s ordering another shot.  The former dealer waves his hand again, letting the guy know it’s not a drink he wants.

“What’s up Mickey?” the bartender asks as he leans forward. 

“Is Ian working tonight?”  Mickey notices the instant drop in the guy’s face.  “What is it?” he asks instinctively.  “Somethin’ happen to him?”

The bartender shrugs.  “No one really knows,” he says, “he just stopped showing up to work one day.  That was nearly three months ago.  No one’s heard from him since.”

Mickey feels a sense of panic set in, but hides it with a cool look.  “Know where I can talk to the owner of this joint?” Mickey asks.  The bartender furrows his brows, looking as if he’s going to ask Mickey why, but uses his better judgment and doesn’t when Mickey scowls as him.

“See that guy over there with the crazy beard?” the bartender says as he points to a secluded area towards the back.  “That’s him.”

“Thanks,” Mickey says as he quickly walks over towards the guy.  The man is sipping on a cocktail as he leafs though papers.  He looks up when he feels Mickey hovering over him.

“Can I help you?” he asks.  His tone is indignant, which instantly pisses Mickey off.

“Yeah, uh, you know where I can find Ian Gallagher?”

The owner rolls his eyes as he glances back down at his paper.  “Jesus fucking Christ, another one asks?  He doesn’t work here anymore honey.”

“I know that asshole,” Mickey says as he forces himself into the guy’s personal space.  “I’m asking you if you know where I can find him, like an address or something.”

“Don’t have that information.”

“Like hell you don’t,” Mickey says, now placing his foot on the rest beneath his chair.  At this point, he’s about a foot away from the guy and a second away from slamming his face into the table.

“Look, you think you’re the first horny sonofabitch who he’s probably fucked senseless, making you think it’s love or whatever?” the owner snaps.  “Do yourself a favor and find someone else to fall in love with.”

And that sends Mickey over the edge.  He takes his hand and grabs the back of the owner’s neck, slamming his face as hard as he can into the cocktail table.  He feels a satisfying crunch ricochet off of his hand and he’s certain he’s broken the guy’s nose.  “Listen up dick breath,” Mickey says as he lowers himself over his ear, “I know you have minors that dance here, dismiss open drug sales and usage, as well as sell alcohol to people who aren’t 21.  So if you don’t fucking give me the information I’m asking for, I’ll have this place shut down so fast and you’ll be hauled off to the pokey to become someone’s bitch and have your asshole repeatedly ripped apart.”

The owner lets out a painful grunt as he lifts he head from the table, gripping his nose as blood gushes between his fingers.  “You broke my fucking nose you little fucker!”

“Want me to add all ten fingers?!” Mickey shouts into his face.  The owner jumps to his feet, getting Mickey’s message loud and clear.

“Christ!  Alright, altight!” he surrenders.  “Wait here.”

The owner disappears into the back for a few minutes, and at one point Mickey thinks he may have to go back there.  But before he decides to take the trip, the owner emerges, a wad of tissues pressed into his nose.  He throws a few papers at Mickey, one falling to the floor.  Mickey instantly collects them, and looks over the makeshift paperwork.  It isn’t even a legit application, but some bullshit document thrown together, more than likely by the owner.  His eyes scan over the documents, and he sees pertinent information like Ian’s name, date of birth and his address.  Mickey feels his breath catch in his throat, because he lives in fucking Canaryville, not too far from him.  Maybe he should have stayed in high school, because Ian could be someone he could’ve passed more than a few times.

“Thanks,” Mickey offers blandly as he turns around to leave.  He hears the owner mumble a few choice words which in turn makes Mickey turn around and give him a nice middle finger.

He leaves the club, once again turning away former customers as he leaves Boystown to make his way to the Gallagher house.

////

There’s something about the front steps of the Gallagher house that seems sad and abandoned.  It reminds Mickey of his own front steps as he trudges up them slowly.  He glances down at his watch.  It’s after 11:00pm, but despite the lateness of the hour, Mickey rings the doorbell.  He can tell someone’s in the living room by the flickering lights of the television bleeding through the window curtains.  It takes more than a few moments for someone to answer the door, which in turn annoys Mickey a little.  He’s therefore sporting a nice scowl when someone finally answers, their face no different than his.  It’s a guy about his age and height with wavy hair that’s a cross between dirty blonde and light brown.  He has large blue eyes that are just as piercing as his own, and Mickey can already tell the guy’s a smartass.

“Can I help you?” the guy asks, not even trying to hide his annoyance.

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey clears his throat.  “Ian here?”

This earns a confused look from the guy before his face turns blank.  “Who’s asking?”

“I am.”

“And who are you?”

Feeling further annoyance creep into him, Mickey bites back the urge to shout every expletive at this guy.  He did after all, come to his house fairly late.  “Mickey Milkovich.  And you are?”

The guy lets out a loud scoff.  “A Milkovich?  I’m his older brother Lip,” he answers indignantly, “and what the hell’s a Milkovich doing here at this time of night?  Ian owe you money or something?”

“No, he doesn’t,” Mickey says as he casts his eyes downward.  “It’s just…” he trails off before looking back up at Lip who’s clearly losing his patience with every passing second.

“What is it?”

“Look, can you just tell me if he’s here or not?”

Clearly at his wits end and wanting to get rid of him off of his front porch, Lip squints his eyes at the former dealer.  He studies Mickey for a few seconds before letting out along breath, his face suddenly softening as a faraway look forms.  “Ian ran off months ago.”

Mickey’s knees turn to rubber and he nearly sinks down into the porch.  His stomach drops as every scenario possible runs through his head.  “What happened?”  Mickey can tell Lip’s probably told this story more times than he’s wanted or cared to by the way he rolls his eyes and lets out a disgruntled breath. 

“Ian had – issues,” Lip starts as he scratches the side of his temple.  “And since it seems like you won’t leave unless I give you the nitty gritty details, here they are.  I love my brother, but he was a drug addict and suffered from bipolar disorder.  He came home one day months ago all excited about this new guy he met, but he continued to spiral.”  Mickey feels breath almost abandon his body.  The guy was obviously him.  Lip notices the distressed look come over Mickey’s face, but continues.  “Me and my sister tried talking him into getting treated for his addiction and for this illness, but he constantly shot us down saying _“my guy has everything I need.”_   After about five weeks of continued drug use and refusing to get treatment for his bipolar disorder he came home out of his head one night, so upset.  But it wasn’t the first time I’d seen him like that, so I figured I’d let him blow it off.  The next day, he was gone just like that and no one has heard from him since.”

Mickey looks up at Lip finally, nearly feeling like he’s about to be sick to his stomach.  “He got a number I can call him on?” he manages to spit out shakily.

“Yeah, but that line’s been off for nearly as long as he’s been gone.  No one knows where he is or how to reach him.  My sister’s losing her mind over it.”

Mickey rubs both of his hands over his face as he begins to back away from Lip.  “Thanks,” he breathes out as he turns around and begins to make his way down the steps.  He’s nearly out of the front gate before Lip calls out to him.

“Hey, uh, when’s the last time you saw him?” Lip asks.

“Same as everyone else it seems,” Mickey responds, his back still to Lip.  He starts to make his way off, before Lip asks yet another question.

“How’d you know him?”

It takes Mickey a few moments to answer, before he turns slowly to face Lip.  He rubs his thumb across his bottom lip.  “I didn’t,” he responds solemnly, “not really.”  Lip seems to accept this answer, although it’s apparent in the suspicious look on his face that he knows Mickey’s lying as he watches him walk away from the house.

It felt wrong saying that he really didn’t know Ian to Lip, but as Mickey walks heavily down the Southside pavement, he realizes something – he really didn’t know Ian.  Not like he wanted to.

The only thing he knew was his addiction.

////

A few more months pass, and Mickey finds that he’s still looking for Ian anywhere he thinks he can find him.  He doesn’t go back to Boystown anymore, but it’s in the subtle features of other people that he sees constant reminders.  He feels his heart nearly stop whenever he sees a tall guy with red hair, or the back of a guy whose build resembles Ian’s.

He knows he will never find him, but still he looks.  He eventually goes back to selling coke when money pretty much stops coming in for him.  But it doesn’t take him long to realize that it’s not the money he’s after, but the possibility of Ian somehow finding his way back to him to get his fix again.  The thought makes Mickey want to be sick, but he admits to himself that if it ever ends up being the addiction that brings Ian back to him, he wouldn’t even blink twice at traversing back down the same destructive path he went down with him before. 

And maybe somewhere deep down he feels as if he would be able to save him this time, despite the truth being that he wouldn’t be capable because he himself needs saving.  It’s a shameful thought, but Mickey owns it as he walks day by day beside Ian’s shadow that lingers.  It’s his figurative ghost, or maybe it’s his actual one.  Whatever the case, Mickey just wants him near him, even if it takes drugs to get him.  It then dawns on him, that he himself is an addict, still craving Ian’s flesh – even his mere presence.

And despite the danger of the hunger – he’s ok with that.  He has to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Runs and hides* Don't throw rocks at me! It wasn't that bad though. I just need angst more than most people, and as I listened to "Junky Valentine" the idea came to me, and what started as a one shot turned into a three chapter fiasco. I went back and forth with Ian ending up in rehab, where Mickey finds him, but it felt typical and forced. We all know not everything has a happy ending. Notwithstanding, I certainly hope you enjoyed this despite the possible pain (and hate) I've caused. Love you all! :)))
> 
> Follow me at penprowess.tumblr.com and say hi!


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